


Lucky, Lucky

by eerian_sadow



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Community: tf_rare_pairing, Fluff, Gen, mama Barricade, non-graphic depictions of damage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-20
Updated: 2010-06-20
Packaged: 2018-05-17 06:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5858353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eerian_sadow/pseuds/eerian_sadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wasn't a sparkling-killer, and he would do everything he could to make sure these newsparks survived.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky, Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> for one of the back prompts over at [](http://tf-rare-pairing.livejournal.com/profile)[tf_rare_pairing](http://tf-rare-pairing.livejournal.com/). prompt was: Movie Barricade/Appliancebot(s) "Coffee"

It had been a rather strange thing to come online, not to the smelter of the Pit, but to the impact of small bodies against his chassis.

He had been certain he was deactivated. He remembered Soundwave’s cables invading his systems, hacking his processor, and the triple changer’s white-hot rage at the loss of Frenzy. The pain had been excruciating as all those cables contracted and began pulling; he passed out long before the spy finished tearing him apart.

Which brought him here, to a place that was—judging by the metal digging into his back—much more scrapheap than anything else.

Carefully, mindful of the critical damage and low fuel alerts he was receiving, he onlined his optics to look around. He was, indeed, laying on a scrapheap—one made up from more than a few deactivated Decepticons. Scattered around him were several smaller mechs—likely what had hit him to bring him online—that looked far too abnormal to have come from Cybertron.

In fact, when he compared them to some of the data he had downloaded on human lifestyles, he thought they looked a bit like kitchen appliances. Which meant they had been created on Earth.

Primus, were the Autobots killing sparklings now?

He reached a hand carefully toward one of them, prepared to freeze if it seemed that anyone—human or Autobot—noticed the movement. He was surprised at the warmth of the plating when his digits touched it. He moved quickly to the next, and the next, until he had checked all of them.

He was surrounded by eleven sparklings, five of them most definitely still online. The others could have simply been warm from their brothers’ body heat. He couldn’t just leave them there; he might have been a Decepticon, but he wasn’t a sparkling-killer.

Carefully, Barricade pulled himself from the scrapheap and began to plan.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Their escape hadn’t been easy, pretty or at all the way he had planned. The humans had foolishly been piling the offline mechs outside, presumably to dispose of later, and he had thought it would be a simple matter of grabbing the sparklings, jumping the laughably low fence and outrunning any pursuit.

It might have worked if there hadn’t been an Autobot frontliner—and _when_ had Sideswipe gotten to this Primus-forsaken mudball, anyway?—on patrol on the other side.

So he had jumped the wall and straight onto Sideswipe’s sword, adding to his already considerable damage and then run, with the frontliner hot on his tracks, weaponless through the city into the warehouse district. He’d finally lost the fragger in the narrow alleys and then ducked into an empty warehouse to hide, but he had no doubt that the Autobots would be back this way soon to dispose of him properly.

He could only hope that the presence of the sparklings, still alive after all, would give the Autobot pause.

Barricade looked over the sparklings as his systems attempted to cool themselves. He had overstrained himself and then some running from Sideswipe, and his damaged systems and self repair were both protesting mightily. The Decepticon had only been able to save the five he had known were still online; the others had cooled rapidly after landing on the scrapheap and he had been unable to detect any sort of spark signature from them.

He was strangely sad that he had not gotten to meet the little ones before their deactivation. The sentiment annoyed him.

The sparklings were in bad shape, bits of plating melted or charred and completely missing in some spots. The smallest of them, some kind of communication device from what he could tell, kept twitching spasmodically and its spark flickered and dimmed often.

He thought he might lose that one, which would be a mercy, since he didn’t have the capabilities to repair someone so small.

He was promising to do the best he could for them as he slid down the wall he was resting against and into recharge.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

He was pulled out of recharge by someone—probably large—banging on the door of the warehouse he’d taken shelter in. “Barricade! I know you’re in there!”

Slag. It was the medic.

Slowly, painfully, he made his way to the door, knowing the other mech would just open it himself if Barricade didn’t answer. Medics were like that.

Carefully, he rolled the door up, wary of any other Autobots that might be around. Only the blindingly bright colors of the medic greeted his optics, though. “What.”

“I see that Sideswipe was not exaggerating your condition,” Ratchet said. “You require extensive repairs.”

“And you’re going to fix me, just like that? I don’t think so, Autobot.” He started to pull the garage door down when one of the sparklings warbled—a noise that sounded like both confusion and pain. The medic’s hand was a quick to reach into the door to prevent its closure as Barricade was to turn back to his charges.

One of the sparklings was struggling to its feet, warbling in confusion and attempting to bring what looked like weapons systems online. Barricade wanted to be surprised by that, but they were at war and it made sense that any hatchlings would form with weapons systems that would become functional once they decanted. As quickly as he could, the Decepticon made his way back to the sparkling hoping to comfort by mere presence.

He was unsurprised that the medic followed, clicking and cooing at his charge in sparkling-speak. It figured that, among the Autobots, even a frontline medic would know something so useless. The noise succeeded in soothing the sparkling though, so he didn’t complain.

“Why did you save them?” Ratchet asked softly after the sparkling calmed. “Hardly the behavior I would expect from a Decepticon.”

Barricade glared at the medic. “I may be a Decepticon, but I have standards. I am _not_ a sparkling-killer.”

“Something we have in common.” The Autobot turned his focus—and his sensors—on the sparklings. “The littlest is dying. I have the tools and supplies to repair it, if you will allow it.”

Quickly, the Decepticon thought back over what he knew of this medic. Ratchet had, on several occasions, been found repairing damaged or dying Decepticons and neutrals during and after battles. Mechs he had repaired stayed that way, at least until the next battle. The mech was only openly aggressive during combat, and even then only when innocents or casualties required protection.

“Fine. But you stay here to work.” Not that he stood much of a chance against the medic if Ratchet tried anything right now, but it was the principal of the thing.

Ratchet nodded. “The little one might not survive a transfer anyway.”

Barricade didn’t reply as the Autobot moved over toward the sparklings to begin his work.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

They were prisoners in this old warehouse he had found, as surely as if they had been in an Autobot brig. But they were prisoners together.

Ratchet had been as good as his reputation promised. The sparklings were repaired and healthy, and so was Barricade. The Autobots had even given them energon, though where they had gotten it remained a mystery.

The only drawback was that the sparklings were obsessed with performing their initial function.

The communication device-- _cell phone_ he reminded himself with a scoff—insisted on sending messages to humans outside their prison. He had been placated by being allowed to message the Autobots’ pets, but that would only last for a set amount of time. Eventually the mech—who still needed a designation, slaggit—would want to communicate with a larger world. Barricade did not look forward to that day; Soundwave would almost certainly find them just by tracking the little one’s signals.

The food making appliances all insisted on preparing food and drinks for the humans. It was disgusting, but it made them happy and kept the calm and quiet. Bathing them—particularly Dickbot—was a chore, but it was the price he paid for his survival and theirs. He was, however, going to have to convince the little blender to change his name—Dickbot was not an appropriate designation in any language.

With a heavy sigh—and just when had he picked up _that_ human action?!—he drug their supplies into the warehouse from the drop off point just outside the door. They would be clamoring at him the moment the food was brought in, and the humans would be by to pick it up in a few hours, so it was best to get their daily ritual out of the way now.

The opening and closing of the door did not go unnoticed.

“Coffee?” The sparkling-that-used-to-be-a-cappuccino maker asked. “Spazz make coffee?”  



End file.
